


Important Selections

by saruma_aki



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Speaks Spanish, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Brotherly Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gay Billy Hargrove, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, I Tried, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Police Officer Steve Harrington, Redemption, Tags Are Hard, all the hurt is from the show, cheesy title are my m.o, it's implied - Freeform, just two tho, only comfort here, resolutions, some OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 18:20:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saruma_aki/pseuds/saruma_aki
Summary: High school reunions are shams, he's convinced, and he has no intention of ever going to one again. But then Dustin calls, and then Max talks, and then he's getting in his car, palms slick from sweat and heart pounding at the knowledge that it's been a decade and he's going to see Billy fucking Hargrove again.It's not exactly how he wanted to spend some of his vacation days.





	Important Selections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giraffewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffewrites/gifts).



> This is for my dear, dear friend who has been having a rough time lately, so I wanted to cheer them up a little bit. I think I did pretty well with making this fluffy and feel good, so hopefully it lifts your spirits and doesn't take an axe to your heart or something.
> 
> In any case, I tried.
> 
> Love you!
> 
> Enjoy.

The five year reunion isn’t a big thing. Most people probably don’t think of the five year high school reunion as the one they definitely want to go to, so when Steve gets the call, he thinks that’s the one he should bother going to, but when he rolls up into town, he finds himself sucked back into the world of his nightmares—because Hawkins is a bitch and has to wait for the whole gang before giving his brain more fodder to screw him over with in the middle of the night.

So when the ten year reunion comes around, he’s steadfastly against it. The kids, no longer really kids, know that he’s not stepping foot back in that town under pain of death, and Steve is confident in his resolution—until he gets the call.

At least the call isn’t from the school, inviting him back, or his parents, also inviting him back—those two calls are already done and over with. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how he looked at it, it was from the one number that shouldn’t be calling him this late unless shit had gone down.

“Fuck, has something happened,” are the first words out of his mouth, and he feels he should be more concerned about the fact that his fingers are already curled around his car keys and he has one arm through the sleeve of his coat, only stalling long enough to hear if they need help or not.

“Hey, Steve—kind of, well, sort of, depending on how you look at it but—hey, guys, can you shut up, I’m on the phone!”

“Dustin, Dustin,” he calls, trying to cut through the bickering, heart beating too fast in his chest, palms sweaty from the adrenaline he can’t chase away.

There’s chatter on the other side, loud yells before Dustin is screaming for them all to shut up before his mouth his pressed against the receiver again and he’s apologizing with a soft huff of embarrassed laughter. “So, see, the thing is—can you come back to Hawkins for that reunion thing? We’re all going to be in town and, see, Max did a thing, and she didn’t really think it through, and she’s kind of panicking, and now we’re all panicking, and it would all just be so much better if you’re there because Mike is counting on El, but that’s not exactly conducive of keeping shit under wraps, so having you there would be so helpful, and you know, you’re good at being there, so we were wondering—”

“What did Max do,” he finally cuts in, right when Dustin’s taking a breath, and he can’t quite believe he somehow managed to stay friends with these disorganized idiots for so long—thought with love.

There’s a pause on the other line, and his mind can’t help but conjure up thoughts of flower petal maws and heart stopping figures of smoke looming over all of them, and Will’s tear striped face, blotchy and red and paled with trauma.

“She asked Billy to come.” There’s silence and he can hear his heart rate ratchet up a bit. “He said yes.”

And he doesn’t know if he would take the Upside Down over the tornado that is Billy fucking Hargrove, with all his tongue wagging and crystal blue eyes and strong as shit fists as they pound into his skull—and smoked out apologies that are and aren’t, and delicate handwriting on crumpled sheets.

Steve doesn’t realize Dustin’s been blabbering for a while—listing more reasons for Steve to come back to Hawkins and risk the Upside Down bullshit they all hope is over, but is fickle and sometimes flare up like a sciatic nerve or something—until his voice is suddenly cut off and there’s another voice on the line, steady amidst the cries of indignation from his not-so-secret favorite of the bunch.

“Please, Steve,” she asks, and it’s Max, and she doesn’t sound entirely herself, a little like maybe she was crying or on the verge of doing so and like she’d been screaming herself hoarse. “I—he,” she sighs, and he can imagine her eyebrows furrowing in frustration, lips pursing, “I don’t think he’s the same, but I want to, I don’t know, talk to him? And the last time I got the guts to confront him, you guys were all there, and I just,” she trails off. “It was my idea to ask you to come, and I’m sorry, I know you’re busy, but—can you?”

He hates his bleeding heart so much as he says, “Yeah, okay, I’ll be there,” without a moment of hesitation, but he doesn’t really regret it when he hears her sigh of relief, can hear her probably swallowing back the tears the stress of the whole situation has caused her.

“Okay, thank you—I—we will see you soon. Thank you.”

All he can do is numbly reply, “Yeah,” and echo her sentiments before the line goes dead and he hooks the phone back on its stand, hands trembling as the adrenaline finally chooses to abandon him and leaves him feeling bereft and shaky on his own feet. His keys drop to fall on his bedside table, and his coat slips off his arm, and he tugs the bat—oh, so familiar—to him as he slumps onto his mattress, feeling the weight in his palm as he curls up, under the sheets, and waits for the panic to truly go away.

He doesn’t know when exactly he falls asleep, but his grip on the bat doesn’t loosen until he’s well and truly out, remembering the wall changing shade from the light of day.

 

 

 

Driving into Hawkins does nothing but inspire a sharp bite of anxiety in him, windows rolled down to let in the familiar smell, hoping to soothe his frazzled nerves with the brush of wind and acrid scent of manure and farmlands. There's no gurgle of Demogorgons or their doggy counterparts, and he's safe—he knows that—but the bat is in the passenger seat, handle cocked towards him, nails scraping at the covered foot well.

He thinks its progress that his hand isn't on it like it was the last time he drove in, but he feels like he's kidding himself with the optimistic thought. It's not progress, not really, and it rings hollow in his stomach.

The mall where he's supposed to meet them is just a bit out of his way, but he doesn't mind. The longer he can postpone driving up his driveway and dealing with his parents, the better. The denim of his pants is a familiar scratch over his knees, and he doesn't feel as awkward as he used to in the clinging shirt, comfortable now with how his shoulders have broadened, how he's filled out a bit more around his chest, around his stomach. The jacket, padded and warm, housing three lighters in his inner pocket and a barely opened pack of cigarettes if he needs a smoke, doesn't swallow him like it did when he first bought it five years ago, and it rests comfortably on his shoulders, cream and warm.

Indiana isn't as cold as he remembers, but he figures that might have to do with his own perception of the warm of California versus the biting ice of Hawkins. It's easier to think it cold and unwelcoming when he's surrounded by sun and colors, and people walking down the street with excited chatter—oblivious and so, so ignorant.

The mall, though, gushes warm air at him as he steps in, and it's bustling with people, but not nearly as much as he's used to, and not as much as he remembers usually being there, but it's early, the mall just opened, and most kids are still in school, in class, and are unable to frolic and gaze upon the various racks upon racks of clothing.

"Steve," someone yells, and he turns from where he's approached the food court area to meet the barreling form of Dustin, somehow still gangly and awkward even though he's twenty three now with a bachelor’s in chemistry and working on his master’s. "I had total faith you were going to show up," he declares proudly, sticking his tongue out at Mike as the others approach, abandoning the tables they had commandeered in favor of meeting him halfway with hugs and fist bumps, pats on the back, and beaming smiles.

He doesn't know how they did it, if he's being honest. Remaining friends for so long, remaining in a relationship for so long when he looks over at Jane and Mike, coming back together despite taking breaks when he looks at Lucas and Max—enduring it all and supporting and healing when he looks over at Dustin.

He's not ashamed to admit he and Nancy have drifted apart, and with her went Jonathan—not that he was ever particularly close to him. But where Jonathan floated away, Will stayed, and he looks good, healthy, smiling awkwardly with hair in a similar bowl cut, but fluffier, with more style, swept more towards one side than the other. He still seems awkward, like Dustin, the odd men out in a friend group that is two thirds in committed relationships.

"Okay, not to dive into the heavy stuff right off the bat," Steve begins once they all have trays of burgers and fries and pop at much too early an hour for any of those things, clustered together around the four tables they shoved together, and everyone groans, Max bowing her head, fiery mane tucked back in a braid. She never quite outgrew the tomboy phase, and Steve figures it's more than a phase at this point, and she looks comfortable in her loose long sleeve and weathered jeans, scuffed sneakers tucked against each other. "What? Geez, guys, I need to know what exactly the plan is here. Billy Hargrove is going to be back in town and, while I don't doubt I could totally take him," the words earn him scoffs that he steadfastly ignores, "I'm guessing that's not the goal."

"I want to talk to him," Max admits, and the others stop their chattering about Steve's potential physical prowess now versus then and how Billy's might have changed, "about—about growing up, why he left the second he had his diploma, got in the car and never came back. Why he was so," she flails for the words for a moment before simply settling on, "angry."

"Max insists he didn't use to be like that," Lucas stage whispers over at Steve, and Max slaps him over the head, glaring balefully, but there's fondness lining her expression. Jane is quiet next to her, idly eating her fries, brown eyes surveying the scene in that otherworldly manner that she never grew out of. Steve figures it's just a part of her.

"Understand," Jane finally says, swallowing her fry as she starts pulling back the wrapping around her burger. "She wants to understand."

Steve nods, swallows the last bite of his burger and takes a long pull of his pop before finally speaking. "I totally get that. Potential reconciliation—it's really cool of you to have reached out, Max. And he agreed, so maybe he was waiting for it, or something. I don't know." The others laugh, although whether it's at Steve's stumbling or the idea of Billy fucking Hargrove wanting to reunite with his step sister, he doesn't know. "But why am I here? Why did you want me here? I get the whole last time thing, we were all together, and that makes sense, but what's the plan?"

"You're our ticket into the gala," Lucas declares, holding out a large hand towards him, like he's presenting him some kind of award. "Billy's going to the reunion since that's what Max invited him for—because apparently saying, ‘come here and let's talk’, was too much effort."

"I panicked, okay," she grouses, hiding her face in her sandwich.

"So, we need you to have us be your plus ones and twos and sixes because we need in. And then we all have to be there to support her and be willing to stab him with another syringe and actually crush his balls if he hurts her."

Steve sighs, rubs at his temples and then scrubs the hand over his face because he doesn’t feel like he’s gotten nearly enough sleep for this. His hair flops over his face, and he pushes it back in annoyance, leveling them all with a flat look. But then he looks at Max, and she looks so much like that girl that stared out of the window of the Byers' house at the roar of the Camaro and professed they were all dead if Billy found her there, scared but determined. Determined to go in alone, to spare them all, but also ready to cower and hide, and not knowing which one to choose. And Steve couldn't abandon her like that, couldn't abandon any of them like that. Into their twenties, and he still looks at them like they're his kids, his little miscreants he accidentally adopted, apparently.

"Okay, so I get you in, make sure none of you get in trouble, and stay close enough that if you give a hint of distress, I come at him with the bat. Got it," he breathed out, and his acquiescence has cheers coming from all of them, and Dustin claps him on the back of the neck, like a proud kid, and he shakes his head fondly, warning him about the hair as Dustin launches into a tale of his recent experiment that lit the lab on fire.

 

 

 

The suit feels familiar as he tugs the jacket on, adjusts the tie, in a way his childhood room doesn't. The mirror shows him, him as he is now, tall with a bit more muscle from training and being out in the field, not quite as skinny legs, but still slim, broader shoulders. But, despite the image in front of him, he can't help but see the ‘him’ of the past—wild eyes, sweat damp hair, loose shirt and high jeans, scuffed trainers and clammy hands pressing into his cheeks.

His parents are gone, off of on some dinner, and he thanks his lucky stars for that because he has no desire to interact with them right now. His hands smooth down the wrinkles from his shirt and adjust the belt, make sure everything is tucked in. His hair is combed back, soft, a lot less spray than he used to put in it, shorter, spliced in layers, but with the same buoyant volume he loved.

He could never quite let go of his hair, and his year with a short crop that slowly grew back was nothing short of a huge mistake.

He doesn't know why he's fussing so much with his appearance, though. Maybe it's because it's Billy Hargrove he's seeing again and he has this misplaced need to prove something. He doesn't know. He just knows that he feels kind of ridiculous, and the drive there is filled with nothing but self-loathing.

The kids are already there, and he needs to stop thinking of them as kids, and they're all spruced up in nice clothes and shoes, hair done. Dustin has grown into his curls, and Steve can see the remnants of his influence in the style and the way he's holding himself. A part of him is so horrendously proud of having helped Dustin with his confidence, of having done something good, been the good that Nancy was convinced he was. The other part of him tells him Dustin is just that amazing and would've come into his own with or without Steve.

"You ready," he asks Max, and she nods, still looking horrendously small, so, so, small, and he claps a gentle hand on her shoulder before letting Lucas take over the comforting, smiling at Jane as he passes and giving a nod to Mike. Will is steady and calm just behind him, oddly seeming as if the leader of the party at his back, Dustin beside him. Inhaling deeply, he knows from the parking lot alone that the school must be packed of alumni coming back for the reunion that matters, the one he wanted to avoid.

He wonders why Max couldn't have gotten the guts to talk to Billy last year when less people would be here.

The doors open easily under his hands, and the kids stroll in after him, all of them confident in appearance, but nervous and being surrounded by people half of a decade older than them. He can't say he feels much better, but he hides it, squashes it down.

He sees Carol from the corner of his eyes, bright hair shocking amidst a sea of brunettes and blondes. Steve is privately glad that Max didn't grow up to be anything like her. He leads the way into the gym, moves immediately for the drinks and grabs a pop, figuring he should be sober for this, giving all of the kids a stern look to ensure they also stick to that.

He doesn't know how long they all idle about, talking to each other, when the gymnasium doors open, and all eyes can't help but look over because they all heard the loud roar of an engine—readily dismissed because there's no way Billy drives the same fucking car, and no one other than the party knows Billy’s coming—and there stands Billy fucking Hargrove, looking like some kind of Disney prince.

Steve wants to die.

They're all frozen around him as Billy strolls in like he owns the joint, and behind him are two kids, around nine or ten, looking identical in everything except sex, and Steve really wants to die. The black slacks Billy wears cling to every contour of his muscles, the slope of his ass, and his shirt is equally as tight, top few buttons undone, the same pendant he wore in high school settled in the crease of his pectorals. His dress shoes, boots, leather and pointed with small heels that click, click, click, add to the image of pompous, successful, offset by the watch, gold, he checks, fingers decorated in golden rings that glitter in the lights, ring finger of his left hand bereft, before he turns to the kids and speaks, and the image morphs to fatherly suddenly.

And that's a bigger sort of whiplash.

The kids follow behind him silently, smiling awkwardly at people, caramel skin all but glowing under the lights, light blue eyes gazing around them, tight, tight, curls bouncing as they move through the room with a sort of enviable practiced ease. Everyone is staring, and Billy seems to know. The kids who look so much like him seem to know as well, and they tilt their chins up as Billy does, awkward smiles disappearing as the stares persist, and their eyes are hard chips of ice as they survey the room.

Billy sees them, though, and he walks towards them, and Steve feels like he's panicking, but his face is frozen—small mercies.

"Maxine," Billy breathes when he gets to them, frowns and then corrects himself before Lucas can break out of his stupor to bare his teeth, "Max." His voice is low, still the same low tenor from high school, rumbling out of his chest, and the kids behind him step closer, peering around Billy. "It's good to see you."

He sounds like he means it, and it's weird, and Steve doesn't think he'll ever be able to recover from any of this.

"You, too," Max finally croaks out, and her smile is hesitant but there. Billy's answering smile is even more charming, somehow, than it was in high school, teeth still blindingly white, skin still golden from the sun, and there's a neatly trimmed and maintained goatee around his mouth, blonde and rough, and Steve kind of wants to touch it. "You have kids," and it's Max to break the silence that descends, and Billy looks over at her and then down at the two kids behind him.

"Yeah," he responds, and the kids, like they know that's their cue, step forward. They’re wearing semi-matching outfits, except the boy is in this odd half skirt thing that covers his left leg and wraps around his hips, and the girl is in simple slacks. Her heels are pointed and short, age appropriate, and her blouse flows around her shoulders and torso until it’s tucked into her pants. The boy's dress shirt is tucked into his pants, neatly pressed, and he wears leather boots, similar to Billy’s own dress boots, pointed and leather with a small heel. “Rey y Reina,” he introduces them, and they hold out their hands, one at a time, for Max to shake.

“Where’s the mom,” Max asks, and there’s the distrust in her voice, faint and mild but so glaringly obvious for everyone around her, that has Billy’s expression of general pleasantness shuttering for a second before one of his kids speaks up and his smile is back in full force.

“We don’t need one,” and it’s the girl, Reina, that says it, and her brother beams at her before their expressions become cool and collected, like their father.

Fuck, this is all so weird.

“Alright, _pollitos_ , listen up,” Billy declares, and his kids turn around to look at him. “You can go get some drinks over there— _virgen_ —while I talk to your _Tia_ ,” Billy says, and the kids nod, grasping the other’s hand before walking towards the drinks, away from them, just a little bit. “ _Mira, con cuidado!_ If you break that heel, so help me, Christ—you know what I do,” he calls after them and Reina waves her hand dismissively, shooting him a beatific smile—a complete opposite to the looks of horror on everyone in the party’s faces. “What?”

“I swear to fuck, Hargrove, if you hurt them,” Steve hisses, finally finding his voice, and he’s proud that he keeps his voice down because Billy might’ve been an ass as a kid, but Steve’s not about to go ruining any semblance of calm the guy’s managed to find in life by revealing all that he’s done, especially in front of his children.

Billy blinks, looking genuinely offended, and something like hurt flickers across his expression before it hardens into stone, chiseled features closing off, and the chips of ice his eyes turn into show clearly where his kids get it from. His hair is pulled back into a bun, but the small curls that are free framing his face shift as he leans forward—looms, really—suddenly so painfully like his high school self that all of them can’t help but hold their breath. “I am not my father,” he hisses, gravel in his words. “If I ever hurt either of them, I’d turn myself in, thank you very fucking much.”

The words ring in the silence in the bubble of their group, somehow separate from the general bustle of the reunion.

“Max, you wanted to talk to me,” he says, reminds, stepping away, and Steve feels like he can breathe a bit easier now, away from that charged look, that imposing presence. Max nods, meekly somehow, and motions for them to go off to the side. “Harrington, I trust your babysitting skills haven’t abandoned you in adulthood. I expect my kids in one piece.”

The fact that there are suddenly two kids standing next to him, each armed with a pop and bright blue eyes and curly blonde hair, suddenly sets him on edge in a way he never expected to be tonight.

And then Billy’s stepping to the side with Max, and Steve is left with two kids he only just learned the names of, and it is way too familiar to the day Dustin dragged him, flowers first, into dealing with his demodog problem. He, once again, didn’t sign up for this.

The others seem at an equal kind of loss, and they’ve been slowly inching away from him, and he’s noticed, but there’s not much he can do when the kids look up at him like they know him, and they look so similar, it’s unsettling.

“So, you guys are twins,” he asks, looking around, but Mike’s grabbed Dustin and Lucas and fled to the opposite corner where they can watch both train wrecks safely, and Jane’s grabbed Will and followed them because, of course, and now Steve’s left with zero backup and he’s supposed to be Max’s backup, and it’s too much. Rey nods and Reina just looks up at him.

“You’re the guy we’re named after,” Rey speaks, and there’s lilt to his voice, a mild accent like English isn’t all he speaks, which he should’ve expected seeing how Billy flicked between English and what he’s pretty sure is Spanish while talking to them.

“I’m sorry?”

“King Steve,” Reina fills in, sipping her pop, and their hair reminds him of Lucas’ and it causes him pause because—that’s kind of Lucas signature, Lucas’ parents signature. Which opens a whole can of worms he doesn’t think he’s able to address right now, especially since their hair is unrestrained, proud curls, no signs of straightening in sight, and it’s making him think some very complicated thoughts of the Billy he witnessed growing up and the Billy he’s being shown. “ _Papi_ used to tell us stories about King Steve and the monsters he fought,” she muses. “Finally told us a few years ago that Steve was a real person whose face he beat in.”

“You healed up nicely,” Rey offers, like he’s trying to apologize for his sister’s bluntness, and it doesn’t help but it also kind of does, and Steve thinks he should really be sitting if he’s just going to be in a perpetual state of shock.

“Thanks,” he says, feeling just a bit faint—not to be dramatic or anything. He thinks he might prefer the Demogorgons over this, but then hastily takes that thought back because he wants these two nowhere near that kind of horror. “Um, that’s—he, um, he told you guys about that?”

The two nod.

“He tells us everything; we tell him everything. No secrets,” she recites, and both of their faces are fond.

“How old even are you guys,” Steve can’t help but ask, looking at the two little kids with formal clothes on that look like they were tailored, eccentric in fashion and looking like models, with beautiful tight curls and bright blue eyes, and dark caramel skin, and heels on their feet.

“Ten,” they both answer, synchronized, and they look at each other like they’re offended by that fact, and it makes Steve want to huff a laugh, but he’s a bit busy because he’s not good at math, but he knows this is the ten year reunion, and Billy graduated a year early with him which means if his kids are ten, they were conceived when he was sixteen. And if he had the kids when he was sixteen, then that was before he came to Hawkins because he was seventeen when Steve knew him, which means Billy must’ve missed their birth, being here in Hawkins, which means—

He stops thinking. It’s a bit of a headache, a lot of one, and he doesn’t want to think about how Billy was forced, as a minor, to abandon his kids. It leads to too many feelings of sympathy that he's not entirely sure he wants to address.

“And he treats you guys alright," he asks, croaks more like, suddenly feeling very parched, and he moves a bit away to grab another can of pop, although his fingers linger over the booze, tantalizing and seductive in its promise to make him feel so much better—he stays strong and takes the pop, lets the sweet sugar of cola wet his tongue and fill his stomach.

They nod, frowns on their faces. "Why wouldn't he?"

It catches him off guard, makes him nearly choke on the carbonation filling his mouth. "I mean," he fumbles, swallows thickly, cringes at the burn on his suddenly sensitive throat, "it's just—he told you what he did to my face. He's told you everything, I'm guessing. So, you guys should know—probably do know—how he was, back in high school, and," he trails off, staring uncomprehending at their dubious expressions.

"Well, yeah, he was an asshole—"

"Reina, _Papi's_ going to be pissed if he hears you cursing," Rey interrupts, glancing over at their father, expression apprehensive.

"Then don't snitch, _bobo_ ," she hisses back, also stealing a look over before meeting Steve's gaze once more. "He was a douche," she gives her brother a pointed look, "but he was never a bad guy. And he apologized for your face, even if he says it was a shitty apology."

"Apologies," Steve mumbles, corrects, remembers delicate handwriting on crumpled sheets and broad shoulders hunched high and sharp jaw tense and blue eyes piercing. He remembers every one of the apologies, verbal and written, like they're ingrained in his memory as much as that fight was.

"The point is," Rey says, and there's something like happiness mixed with some bittersweet strain of sadness lining their expression, "he chose us. Most parents get their kids handed to them. _Papi_ —he chose to drive across the country to be with us, to take care of us."

"He got a choice, and he chose us. Why would he treat us anything other than amazing?"

That gives him pause.

"Doubting my parenting skills there, are you, Harrington?"

It gives him too much of a pause, clearly. His heart nearly jumps out of his chest at the voice suddenly coming from beside him, and he can't help but jerk, ready to bolt, adrenaline already pumping, expecting a fight that never comes. "Jesus, Hargrove, wear a fucking bell."

"Depends on what I'm getting in return, darling," he drawls, and it's blatant, confident, so comfortably Billy that Steve kind of wants to melt, but he remembers all too well the despairing eyes. Botched apologies don't heal all wounds, even if this one seems to be mostly closed. He thinks it's a bit unfair of him to hold a grudge against Billy after a decade when he forgave Jonathan for the same in a couple of months.

"How about a nice long chat," he responds with, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw. It shouldn't be confrontational, this meeting between them, but Steve can't help but respond to the tension and the—well, the everything that is Billy Hargrove and his cocky attitude and charming smile and long, strong planes.

"Am I going to have to talk to all of you tonight, or just you and Max," he catches himself before adding the second syllable, and it's kind of sweet that he's trying to address her by her preferred version of her name, and a look at Max confirms that, despite the red eyes and the blotchy staining on her cheeks, the conversation went well and she seems more at peace, somehow a bit more at ease—like Billy's presence isn't completely terrifying. And it's not everything fixed, he knows, but it seems like a start, a good start, and that's more than enough for a night. "Because these two haven't eaten and we're all beat from the drive over."

"I can't believe you still have that car," Max mutters, and somehow all three Hargrove’s look equal levels of offended.

"Are you _kidding_ me?"

"Our _baby_?"

"That car stays with me till the day I _die_."

Both Max and Steve can't help but blink at the speed with which all three of them jump to defend the roaring blue monster that apparently nearly ran over Lucas, Dustin, and Mike. He wonders if the strong attachment Billy feels to it is part of the things that he shares with his kids, if that's why they all defend it so strongly.

"We can go to the diner over by the motel. I'm guessing that's where you're staying?" At Billy's nod of confirmation, Steve gives one of his own, looking over at the kids and then over at his own kids, his ragtag bunch, who are questioning how Max is feeling and Jane is clinging to her arm and brushing her hair back. "We can talk, just you and I, although everyone else is probably going to be there."

"Did I hear something about midnight burgers?" Dustin calls over, hurrying over and skidding to a halt just a few feet short of Billy, eying him warily as he inched the last bit of the space over to Steve, Billy simply cocking a brow in response. "We should totally blow this popsicle stand. It's boring and we don't know anyone."

"You guys wanted to come," Steve points out, feeling justly accused, like Dustin is blaming him for his presence, and the boy grins sheepishly. "Just for that, you can pay for your own food."

"Wait, wait, no, that's not fair—"

Billy's laugh is a deep, low thing that curls out of him slowly, like it's testing the waters at first. It doesn't split his face apart, and it doesn't seem awkward, but it's there, soft and low and oh, so soothing, and Steve really wants to die if only to get his blush to go away.

 

 

 

"You named your kids after me," are the first words out of his mouth, and he guesses there's something amusing in the way they can’t help but flinch, curl into themselves at the awkward, blatant statement.

"Technically, your title, but yeah," Billy admits, and it's sheepish, not like the confidence Steve is used to, and he looks over at the twins, a couple of tables away, right in Billy's line of sight, playing with a deck of cards the man keeps in the Camaro, apparently, just for them. "No better reminder that reaching to be great instead of good is selfish than having the title of great permanently taken. Now, my job is just making sure they become good."

They chew their burgers in silence, and Steve resists the urge to push back Billy's curls, instead looking at the fair hair on his arms, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, jacket slung over the back of his chair. Billy's somehow managed to beef up more since high school, though not by much, and his proportions are still the same, perfectly sculpted, the product of hard work and effort.

Steve can imagine the faintest softness lining his stomach still from drinking beer, knows the same kind lines his own, and he pushes those thoughts away like they burn him, flushing as he turns to feed some fries into his mouth before he can embarrass himself by asking something stupid.

"How did you know," he chews a bit, swallows, sips—decides, "about the monsters?"

"You have to be from fucking Hawkins to not notice something so obvious. It was kind of glaring everyone in the face," he scoffs, and the sound is somehow orchestrated in a way that doesn't detract from the utter regality, this inconceivable charisma, that encompasses Billy. "But those aren't the monsters I tell them about," he continues, and he stops eating, looks at Steve, and it's like he's staring into his soul and that's a terrifying notion. What does he see when he looks? Steve's not sure if he wants to know. "You and I weren't close, aren't close, especially not after I broke your face in, but," he sighs, and there's the faintest slouch to his shoulders, "I have eyes, Harrington. And it doesn't take a genius to see when someone's suffering. I don't know everything that you were going through, are going through, but I tell my kids about the ones that I saw in you, the monsters that you brought with you everywhere."

"You have your own monsters."

Billy nods and looks over at the twins, then back at Steve. "I do—did—especially back then. But it's easier to see someone else's suffering than to accept your own."

"Deep," is all Steve can respond to that, although the words resonate with him strongly, and he can't help but dart a glance over at Dustin. Dustin who, despite his amazing personality and beatific smile and all around good vibes, is still that lost boy waiting for someone to see in him what he knows he has and all that he doesn't know he has.

"You did well by him," Billy comments, suddenly, following Steve's gaze.

"I didn't do anything," he scoffs, ducks his head and shies away from suddenly perceptive ocean blues.

Billy hums. "Sometimes all people need is acknowledgement and support, and you delivered it in spades. But," he throws that cocky smirk over that somehow lessens the tension coiling in Steve's gut, "whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Still a little shit, I see," Steve remarks, but it's fond, weirdly, and it surprises him, catches him off guard—leaves him pondering the implications.

"Till the grave, baby," is the chuckled response he gets, and, fuck, if that laugh doesn't do things to him, things he doesn't want to think about. "Heard you've been doing a really good job over in Cali on the force," Billy remarks, and Steve blinks, caught off guard. It's weird, a little, how Billy knows that, but Steve knows Billy went back to California, knows that because everyone knew that the second Billy Hargrove got the chance, he would be roaring away back to the sea. But how Billy knows Steve somehow followed is beyond him. "Seems I've never been able to quite get my eye off of you, Harrington—since that party," and it’s a soft admission and explanation all rolled into one.

He winces. It's a bad memory, that party. Most of it is tinged in bitterness and hurt and so much sadness, “Bullshit,” echoing in the confines of his skull and taking up the recesses of his mind. But he remembers Billy, how he came up to him, somehow looking put together after a keg stand, after breaking a record, after having beer slide down his exposed chest.

He remembers every moment with Billy afterwards, pre-Byers residence and post. And now he thinks that this is a different Billy Hargrove, too. Still the same, unapologetically, but somehow different, more mellowed. He has no doubt Billy is still equally as flirtatious, equally as intense, equally as confrontational, but the channels for that energy seem to be positive outlets instead of the harmful ones from before that taint Max's memories and bruised Steve's face.

"Truthfully, me neither," he responds, and the words are hush in the chatter around them, Lucas loudly declaring foul to something Jane did and Mike loudly protesting. He can hear Reina telling Rey that he's cheating, Rey insisting that it isn't possible. But he can hear his own heartbeat, too, pounding in his ears as he looks up and meets Billy's gaze, and the moment feels charged, somehow, the air between them prickling with something unspoken. "I can't believe we live in the same state."

"Try the same town," Billy corrects, and it has an unexpected smile toying on the edges of Steve's lips, and he feels shy suddenly, like he's in a new, disastrously so, situation and he should be bashful, but he's not. He's comfortable, and that's even weirder because he remembers wild blue eyes and bared white teeth, and pain and then dark.

But it somehow doesn't matter.

Ten years _is_ a long time.

"We should meet up sometime, when we're back," he says, and watches Billy's gaze flick down to his half eaten plate of food, "get some drinks." Those blue eyes peer up at him, through long, dark lashes that fan flatteringly over high cheekbones.

"How about," Billy whispers, and it makes Steve lean in just a bit closer, practically holding his breath, drowning in the sea of Billy's eyes, "dinner instead?"

And there's no denying the tension and what it is—what this all is—and all of the things Steve didn't want to think about are back and nipping at his heels, and he just—stops. He lets them consume him, lets them fill him up, let's his foot nudge Billy's under the table, ankles hooking, and embraces the shock and thrill that curls in his stomach at this potentially something new, something good, something wonderful that seems to be blooming.

And he thinks of Max and how she bravely picked up that phone, of how she faced her brother, of how the kids supported her. He thinks of Dustin and his steadfast presence at the side of all of his friends. He thinks of Will and his smile and how it doesn't seem to fade despite the years of trauma unleashed on it.

He thinks of the twins and how they defended their father, how Billy chose them over anything and everything else and roared across the country, not to get back to the sea, but to get back to his lieges.

He thinks of how Billy chose them. He thinks of how Billy chose Max. He thinks of how Billy is maybe, possibly—to some part of him, a whole part of him, hopefully—choosing him, and he can't stop the smile from spreading on his face, although he doesn't really try.

And it's hidden and private and all their own when he reaches for Billy's hand, away from peering eyes, and looks into baby blues, and thinks. He thinks of all they'll have to talk about, all of the apologies that need to be made, proper and right, and all of the darkness they have to unload, and all of the discussions they'll have to have. He thinks of all the stuff they need to air out. But he thinks and thinks and just— he thinks—

He wants to choose Billy, too.

"I'd like that."

And that's really what matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on instagram ( @saruma_aki ) or tumblr ( @saruma-aki ).
> 
> If you enjoyed, feel free to leave a comment down below! <3


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